Joe: Go on, Betsy.
Betsy: In Clovelly there are naught but cabins pitched upon a hill, and ladders to a loft. And, at the foot of the town, a mole, where boats put in. And I have listened to the songs of the fishermen as they wind their nets. And through the window of the tavern I have heard them singing at their rum. And sometimes I have been afraid. I have stuffed my ears and ran. But the ugly songs have followed me and scared me in the night. The shadows from the moon have reeled across the floor, like a tipsy sailor from the Harbor Light. Joe, are you really a man from the sea?
Joe: Why, Betsy?
Betsy: The sea is never gentle. It never sleeps. I have stood listening at the window on breathless nights, but the ocean always slaps against the rocks. Even in a calm it moves and frets. Is it not said that the ghosts of evil men walk back and forth on the spot where their crimes are done? The ocean, perhaps, for its cruel wreckage, haunts these cliffs. It is doomed through all eternity with a lather of breaking waves to wash these rocks of blood. And the wind whistles to bury the cries of drowning men that plague the memory. Joe—
Joe: Yes, my dear.
Betsy: You are the only one—Patch-Eye, Duke and the Captain—you are the only one who is always gentle. And I have wondered if you could really be a pirate.
Joe: Me? (Then with sudden change.) Me? Gentle? The devil himself is my softer twin.
Betsy: Don 't! Don 't!
Joe: What do you know of scuttled ships, and rascals ripped in fight? Of the last bubbles that grin upon the surface where a dozen men have drowned?
Betsy: Joe! For God's sake! Don 't!